


Let's Just Skip to the End

by Planty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Secret Relationship, bookshops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Planty/pseuds/Planty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What kind of world famous movie star strides into a small town bookstore, mocks everything in sight and then buys out half the stock in some sort of misguided flirtatious gesture?</p><p>Oh yeah, Derek. Freaking. Hale. That's who.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed, made better and Americanised by [Rachael](http://yoyohomos.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Based around Notting Hill and most other Hugh Grant films. This is a shameless fanfic RomCom, you have been warned. 
> 
> And I am on[tumblr](http://plantolio.tumblr.com/)!

“Uh, do you have a book on Golems?”

Stiles looks up from his stock chart, grinning brightly, “I assume you’re talking about the Golem of Jewish folklore, and not the Golem of Lord of the Rings?”

The girl stares at him blankly, “What?”

“Y’know,” Stiles screws up his face in an appropriately smeagol-esque fashion, “ _My Precious?”_  he hisses, somewhat helpfully. The girl backs away, seemingly alarmed at what may have admittedly been a creepy sight. Stiles falters slightly, “Over there, under the stack of red journals, it’s got a sticky label with ‘G’, but you might wanna be careful, since the stack with ‘C’ on it looks a whole—you know what? I’ll show you.”

Stiles weaves through the piles of books, sidestepping overflowing boxes and doing a weird kind of jump-step over a heap of aged encyclopaedias. He reaches the ‘G’ stack and tugs out a thick, glossy book. The girl arches an eyebrow as a few books tumble from the top of the stack, clearly unimpressed by Stiles’ organisational skills. He admits the shop could do with a few more shelves or something--although they’d hardly fit in the tiny store--but everything’s a kind of organised chaos. Or so Stiles assures himself.

“Here you are,” Stiles hands the book over for the girl to flick through. She scans the pages briefly and whips out her phone, snapping a picture of a few select paragraphs.

“Thanks,” she says, shoving the book back into Stiles’ arms. “I just needed a page to cite for a research project.”

And then she walks out of the shop.

“This isn’t a library!” Stiles calls after her, wedging the book back into the pile.

 _ ** _Look Book in Time_**_ isn’t exactly a big money maker, then again most mom and pop bookshops nowadays aren’t. The internet is the go-to source for information on Mythology and folklore for most people, but Stiles feels so strongly attached to his crowded, dilapidated little shop that the thought of closing up makes his stomach clench painfully. Plus, his apartment is the floor above and he doesn’t really want to move.

The bell jangles and a guy saunters into the shop. Usually Stiles is pretty pleased to see a customer since,  _ _hey, money,__ but this guy is like—something else.

He’s hot. Like.  _ _Sun God__ Hot.

Stiles tweaks at the collar of his shirt and runs a hand through his hair, attempting to bring about some sense of decency. The man paces through the shelves, occasionally tugging a book off a shelf and flicking through it, frowning to himself. He looks familiar, but Stiles knows he’d remember that face if he’d ever seen it before and probably, shamelessly, commit it to the spank bank.

“Hi,” Stiles cranks up the Stilinski charm, leans on the desk and then promptly slips and punches himself in the face.

Working out his jaw he asks, “Can I help you, sir?” hoping to god his face wasn’t matching the red mark on his chin.

The man looks up from the shelf he’d been perusing. “Is there any kind of order to this store?” he asks bluntly. Of course he’s an asshole. Stiles quashes the flicker of disappointment and continues with his cheery shop owner façade.

“Totally! Everything’s just, you know, kinda Higgeldy-Piggeldy.”

“Higg - ?” the man questions, face clouding in mild confusion. Stiles shrugs.

“Higgeldy-Piggeldy. It’s my phrase of the week.”

The guy’s eyebrows flatten out, “Right. Do you have any books on werewolves?”

“Uh,” Stiles ducks under a low beam a heads straight for a rickety, paint-peeled shelf. “What kind of book are you looking for?”

The man shrugs, ducking under the beam also. “One that’s very informative. But brief.”

Stiles quashes the urge to hit him with the nearest encyclopaedia. After all, it would kind of be a crime to ruin that gorgeous face.

“Do you want something on the origins of the myth? Or folklore? Or children’s stories?”

The man blinks slowly, mulling over Stiles’ question with a look of deep contemplation, “The origins,” he says eventually.

“ _ _Right,”__ Stiles drags off three books, and as an afterthought, a fourth and fifth. “These are all about the origins.  _ _This__ one is really in depth, but is totally worth the read if you want a good understanding. I haven’t read this one, but books from this author tend to be brief, but good for overall - ”

“I’ll take them.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to gawp mindlessly. “Sorry?”

“The books. I’ll take them.”

“Which one?” Stiles fumbles through the stack in his hands and the man sighs through his nose, sounding impatient.

“ _ _All__ of them.”

“Uh,” Stiles staggers over to the counter. “Okie dokie then.”

Damn. This’ll be the biggest sale of the month. Not to mention the two hardbacks are pricey as fuck.

“So,” Stiles rings the purchases up, resisting the urge to jump for joy at the total. “What are these for?”

“Research,” the man says, handing over the cash, barely batting an eyelid over the price.

“Well I guessed that _ _.__ ”

The man frowns. “Then why did you ask?”

“Just interest, man. So, what are you researching?”

The man holds up the thickest of the books, “Werewolves,” he drawls with deliberate slowness. He’s not frowning anymore. It’s more of a cocky smirk. Bastard.

“Right,” Stiles snatches the book back and slides it into a bag. “Awesome. Thanks for your purchase.”

The man raises an eyebrow and then saunters away. Stiles may or may not watch him leave.

 

* * *

The rain sluices down, pounding the window with heavy force. Stiles sighs. No customers ever venture to this part of town in weather like this. It’s not worth the visit.

“Why do you have _that?”_

The only other employee of  _ ** _Look Book in Time_**_ (and Stiles’ roommate) Isaac flicks idly through a glossy gossip rag magazine. He looks up at Stiles’ accusatory tone and shrugs.

“It’s something to read, I guess.”

Apparently Isaac has difficulty finding something to read in a bookstore. Go figure. Stiles leaves Isaac immersed in an intriguing article entitled _‘my mom is marrying my boyfriend – but I’m pregnant with his baby!’_ and begins dusting off thick copies of Egyptian afterlife textbooks. After another hour of absolutely zero customers and an increase in the rainfall, Stiles sighs in defeat.

“You might as well take off the rest of the day.”

Isaac visibly perks up, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, man.”

Isaac grins, grabs his bag and shoves on his jacket almost simultaneously. “Awesome. I can go met Danny from the office.”

Stiles salutes him, “Have fun.”

Isaac beams and practically skips from the store, the pouring rain doing nothing to dispel the happy glow radiating from him. Stiles shakes his head fondly--Isaac and Danny are literally the only people in the world who could challenge Allison and Scott’s title of Most-Sickeningly-Adorable-Couple. And Stiles is talking the ‘no,  _you_ hang up first’ type of sickeningly adorable.

Okay, so maybe that’s more sickening than adorable, but whatever. The two are totally Disney Princes.

Stiles takes a place at the counter and, for lack of something better to do, skims through the magazine. Crap. Crap. Pointless Crap. Seriously, why do people even read these--

Oh, wow. That guy is seriously hot. Stiles scrutinises the image and feels his jaw drop.

It’s him. Mystery grump guy. In full. Shirtless. Glory. The article seems to be about the ‘Hollywood Hotties’ and their ‘Yum ratings’ (honest to God words – what kind of journalistic crap is this?).

_Derek Hale – a solid ten out of ten Yums._

So the guy who’d sauntered into Stiles’ innocuous little store was Derek Hale: Hollywood hunk and apparently, star of an up and coming action movie  _ _Wolfstrike.__ Right. Stiles probably should’ve recognised him on account of the fact that he’s been in every shoot ‘em up action flick these past three years.

Damnit, Stiles should’ve called the paparazzi or something. It would’ve have been awesome publicity for his shop (and don’t they pay for information like that? How does somebody even notify the paparazzi, is it like a Bat Signal type deal, or is there a hotline? Stiles makes a mental note to research that).

Derek stares moodily out from the page and Stiles huffs, pointedly snapping the magazine shut and tossing Derek Hale and his yum rating into the trash.

 

* * *

“There you go, thanks for your purchase!”

The woman flashes him a smile and braves it out into the street, her headscarf barely shielding her from the torrential rain. It had been pouring it down for the past three days and Stiles was beginning to hope against hope for the weather to let up. His store really needed to get some customers in it and fast.

The door jangles (and if that isn’t the fucking definition of serendipity). Stiles looks up.

Derek Hale, Hollywood Hottie extraordinaire etc. etc., stands dripping in the doorway.

“Hello again,” Stiles says faintly.

“Nowhere else is open apart from Starbucks.” Derek says in lieu of a normal person, polite greeting. “People will recognise me in Starbucks.” He adds, disgruntled. “Do you mind if I wait here for my driver?”

Of course he has a driver. People like Derek Hale wouldn’t dream of walking anywhere, or driving themselves. Unthinkable.

“I usually close up in like, half an hour.”  _ _Why are you saying these things, Stilinski? Stop it! Stop it right now! You need his grumpy, grizzled business!__

Derek shoots him a withering glare, “Then I’ll leave in half an hour.”

“Uh.” Far be it from Stiles to protest about crazy hot guys loitering in his store, but – but …

What exactly is his problem with Derek hanging around, again? Aside from the minor issue of his personality the guy was hot and loaded. As Stiles pondered this, watching Derek pace around the store, a particularly vicious gust of wind rattled through and bust the door open. Stiles shrieks as his stock is tossed up in a whirlwind frenzy, pages flitting here and there. Derek suddenly lurches forward, slamming the door shut with a small grunt. Sheets and files meekly flutter back down, landed on the floor in a snowstorm of historical fact and fiction.

“Um,” Stiles surveys the damage, his heart sinking. “You mind lending a hand?”

Derek glares, removing his weight from the door, “I’ve already helped,” he insists, sounding somewhat offended.

“Oh and I’m totally grateful dude. Real Class A citizen stuff right there but,” Stiles splays his hands, “it’s kind of a mess.”

“It was a mess before.”

“Yeah, but now there’s no order to the mess. It’s just a messy mess as opposed to an organised mess of mess.”

Stiles can almost see the cogs in Derek’s brain crunching and groaning to process the comment. Eventually, he nods and stoops down, gathering up fistfuls of Naiad sketches, “where do I put it?” he asks blankly.

“Just on the desk – woah, careful there you’re kind of dripping all over my stock – uh, hey - dude, don’t you have a jacket or anything, ‘cause you’re wet and stuff - ”

Derek’s Henley is soaked through, damp fabric clinging to his chest. It’s a kind of Hunk-of-the-Month calendar image. Stiles will forever be impressed at how he refrains from ogling and manages to guide Derek through the stacks and shelves to a stool behind the till.

“I gave my jacket to a homeless guy.” Derek replies, wringing out his shirt and cringing at the water trickling onto his already damp jeans.

“ _ _Why?”__  Stiles asks incredulously, rescuing a few ancient tomes on Faeries from Derek’s dripping form.

“Because it’s  _ _raining,”__ Derek says slowly, “and he’s  _ _homeless.”__

“So you make a habit of giving your clothes to homeless people?”

Derek shrugs and little drop of water slithers from his hair. “I was part of this help the homeless project last year. Few things stuck with me.”

“Like stripping in the streets?”

Derek scowls _again_ and Stiles barely bites back the urge to make a comment about his face getting stuck that way if the wind changes. Instead, he leans on the desk and grins brightly.

“So did you really like the store so much that you had to come back?”

“No. I got lost,” Derek mutters sulkily. “I left an interview, thought I could get a cab back instead of calling out a driver, but I must’ve copied down the wrong hotel address and I ended up in this street.”

“For what it’s worth, you could probably have walked around and found the right hotel instead of admitting defeat,” Stiles shrugs, “there’s not much to it. Take an hour or so to walk around town and you’ll know it like the back of your hand.”

“I can’t just  _ _walk around,__ _ _”__ Derek says, sounding disgusted. Stiles laughs.

“Why?”

“Because I get mobbed by people asking me for autographs and pictures.”

“Isn’t that the price of being famous?”

“Having my personal space invaded by total strangers at every opportunity? Not being able to have dinner with friends without being interrupted before we’ve even had an appetizer?”

“Well, no. But people are excited to meet you, they’re gonna want your autograph. Suck it up and don’t be such an asshole.”

At some point, Stiles decided that he was entitled to dole out less that flattering advice to people he’d just met. In retrospect, this was kind of dick move. To give Derek credit, he doesn’t Hulk out and punch Stiles in the face for such a disservice to his personality, he simply huffs and says, “I’m stuck in this crappy bookstore because I  _ _gave my clothes away.__ You can’t call me an asshole. _ _”__

“Forgive me for not fawning over the rich guy who occasionally hands out a jacket or two.”

“So an action is only truly selfless and altruistic if the doer is worse off afterwards? You want me to contract hypothermia - ”

“Can’t ‘contract’ hypothermia,” Stiles corrects quickly.

“Whatever. You want me to lose a couple of fingers to frostbite before you take back that ‘asshole’ comment?”

“No,” Stiles admits. “I’m just pissed off because you’ve called my baby crappy.”

“Your baby?”

Christ. Derek is actually looking around the shop as if he’s trying to spot a bassinet or a small child chilling amongst the aging articles.

“My store. My store is my baby.”

“Oh,” Derek shivers minutely. “Right.”

After a few minutes of Derek’s trembling, Stiles relents. “My roommate’s boyfriend is kinda your size. There’s probably a few of his shirts in the laundry pile.”

Stiles dodges off into the side door which leads up into his and Isaac’s shared apartment. He heads for the neatly folded pile of clothes abandoned on the kitchen table and grabs the first item which looks big enough and, as an afterthought, a pair of sweatpants and a towel. He returns to find Derek skimming through the crappy magazine, eyebrow raised incredulously.

“Hope you like the Lakers.”

Stiles chucks the hoodie to Derek, who catches it deftly. Stiles doesn’t even have the time to turn around and give Derek a little privacy--Derek just peels off his soaked jeans, uses the towel to swipe the worst of the wetness and shimmies into the pants.

Damn. He has nice legs. Like, really muscular, sexy legs that look like they’d be even nicer wrapped around something. Like a waist.

Wait, what?

“I’ll just give you a little privacy--” Stiles backs away as Derek wriggles out of his wet Henley. His abs are even better in real life. He is a definite 10/10 Yums. Whatever that means.

“Why.” Derek grunts, shoving on the sweatshirt.

“’cause – well, you’re stripping dude and I know random homeless guys might enjoy the little shows you put on, but - ”

“I’m dressed now,” Derek says flatly.

“That’s good.” Stiles nods. “I’m glad you accomplished such a feat by yourself.”

Derek’s face doesn’t even twitch from the permanent pissed off expression.

“So when does your driver get here?”

“When he gets here.”

“Right.”

A slightly awkward silence passes over them, punctuated by Stiles’ humming and the howling of the wind outside. Derek shifts in his seat.

“I thought we were clearing up?” Derek blurts suddenly. Stiles jumps to attention, seizing the opportunity for something to do.

“Right! So, um, if I gather everything up and you organise it into piles. Everything has a little letter in the right hand corner of the page, so if you just put A with A and B with B and so on. You got that?”

“I think I’ll manage,” Derek says dryly.

Okay, so maybe Stiles was being a little patronising. He hides the sudden embarrassment by gathering up sheathes of paper that have blustered around the store, depositing them on his desk carefully. Derek dutifully sifts through them, placing the paper into neat piles across the desktop, completely obscuring all beneath it, including the magazine. It was then that it struck Stiles how bizarre this situation was -  _The_  Derek Hale, sitting prettily in Stiles' store, painstakingly peeling his way through slightly damp paper and stacking it tidily. Stiles represses the giddy desire to laugh and deposits the last of the papers on his desk.

“So,” he says cheerfully. “What brings you to this part of town? Aside from misguided cab drivers?”

Derek briefly glances up, eyelashes fanning over his vision, “I’m doing a few press events here. Before I started filming Wolfstrike, I did a little background research on werewolves and just wanted to refresh my memory before doing the more in depth interviews. So I found the nearest book store on mythology,” he says, gesturing around him.

“Why not Google it? Not that I’m against having your business but…internet, dude, internet.”

 Derek shrugs, “I prefer books.” He pauses. “Also, the name kind of grabbed my attention.”

“What? Look Book in Time?”

“Yeah.” Derek seems to contemplate the utter awesomeness of the name for a while and then completely dispels that illusion by saying, “was it intentionally that terrible of a pun, or--?”

Stiles draws back, stung, “I’ll have you know that people find the name to be whimsical and clever!” he insists hotly. Derek doesn’t seem to be fooled and Stiles falters slightly.

“Well, initially it was a printing error, but it seemed to fit so,” he shrugs, “it stuck.”

“So the store’s name was originally ‘Look _Back_ in Time’ and you decided that cramming the word book in there was a good marketing strategy?”

“I--well, it really-- _Isaac_ liked it --Yeah.”

Stiles had just blurted out the verbal equivalent of a keymash, so he wasn’t surprised by Derek’s brief concerned look.

“How do you even get customers?”

The sad thing is, Stiles is pretty sure Derek doesn’t know he’s being rude.

“Listen, this is kind of a niche market. People buy from here when they have to, not because they’ve had a sudden hankering for the condensed retelling of the Labours of Hercules. Google may be a good friend of mine, but it’s beat the shit out of my business prospects.”

“Oh.” Derek suddenly looks abashed, fumbling with the hem of Danny’s hoodie.

Who knew superstars were so socially awkward and who knew it was so goddamn endearing. Stiles decides to throw the poor guy a bone, “You want to help me put this stuff back?” He gestures to the piles of paper. “Just find the shelf with the corresponding letter, A with A--”

“This again,” Derek rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, I understand your deeply complex filing system.”

“And that’s stellar, dude. Unfortunately, I’m fresh out of gold stars so you’re just going to have to accept a high five.”

Stiles holds up his hand expectantly. Derek stares at it and then pointedly walks past, depositing the first stack of papers onto the shelf. Defeated, Stiles lets his hand drop down.

“Fine then. No high five for you,” he snatches up the nearest stack of papers, “do you want to do A through to M and I’ll do the rest?”

Derek nods, wordlessly shuffling papers around until they all fit on the rickety shelf. They carry on in silence for a while, until Derek stumbles on a box of Norse God printed notebooks. The contents spill out and Derek shoves them back in with surprising neatness considering the speed he seems to be moving around the shop with. Once the notebooks have been put back, he elegantly steps over the box and snatches up another stack of papers,

And then Stiles realizes.

The little bastard is having a private competition to see if he can put away all his papers before Stiles. That’s … adorable.

Stiles grins wickedly, not one to be bested. He grabs another pile of papers and vaults across the shop floor, cramming them as neatly as possible on the W shelf. An essay on the origins of Wendigos flutters down, but Stiles quickly grabs it back up and shoves it onto the shelf. He risks a quick glance over his shoulder to see Derek staring, smiling. He’s caught on. Stiles pokes his tongue out and seizes another stack and races towards the X shelf, hearing Derek skitter behind him. He swears that he catches a small, muffled bark of laughter. They end up racing back and forth, trading smirks and grins as they frantically shove the papers away.

“Ha!” Stiles crows triumphantly, having tidied away the last of the Z stack. He spins on his heel to face Derek and bask in his glorious victory –

 - only to find  Derek seated at the desk, legs propped up and nose firmly buried in a book about Eros. Stiles clears his throat and Derek looks up, grinning lazily.

“You’ve finally finished, then?”

Judging from the way Derek’s panting, he wasn’t that far behind. Stiles pokes his tongue out. Derek smirks and winks.

Oh Crap.

Stiles’ stomach flutters and it’s very bad not good, because he cannot and will not have a ridiculous crush on a movie star.

“Can I buy this?” Derek asks, holding the book up. Stiles tuts and brushes past him, headed for the till.

“Well, duh.”

“You’re so polite; it truly is a wonder you don’t have more customers,” Derek says sweetly. Stiles laughs reluctantly.

“Shut up dude, you know that was an obvious question.”

“Yeah,” Derek concedes. “But I’m the customer and I’m always right.”

“Doesn’t mean that you can’t be a dumbass.”

“Do you want me to buy the book or not?!”

“Gimme,” Stiles runs a quick price check and hands it back. “Would you like a bag, sir?” he asks politely. Derek snorts.

“I’m good, thanks.” His phone chirrups and he checks it absently. Some strange expression quickly flits across his face and he looks up, “my car’s here.”

“That’s … good,” Stiles says, his throat suddenly tight. He helps Derek gather up the still sodden clothes and nods towards Danny’s hoodie and the sweatpants, “uh, you can keep those for now.” 

Hopefully Danny wouldn’t notice the hoodie’s disappearance, though Stiles doubts he’d protest much if he knew who was wearing it.

"Thank you - " Derek freezes suddenly and his cheeks flush a rather sweet shade of pink. He clears his throat, "I didn't catch your name," he admits. After Stiles done admonishing himself for fawning over a celebrity who doesn't even know his name and most likely won't give him a second thought once he leaves the store, he’ll probably take a moment to coo over how bashful Derek sounds.

"I'm Stiles," Stiles says, smiling despite the pounding inner turmoil. 

“Stiles,” Derek repeats softly, “thanks.”

And then he leans forward, right into Stiles' personal space, hands splaying across Stiles' waist and kisses him. It’s not a passionate kiss, just a gentle press of mouths, his stubble scratching, lips dry but warm, briefly lingering before breaking off.

And then Derek smiles, ducks out into the rain, and is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd and bettered by [Ashley](http://unintentionalgenius.tumblr.com/)

Stiles thinks he’s totally justified suddenly having minor obsession with Derek Hale. After the little ‘encounter’, Stiles had taken a moment to remember how to breathe and function like an actual human being, then he’d shut up shop sharpish and headed straight for his laptop.

His research brought forth the same facts time after time – Derek lost his father at 15, then lived with his mom and sisters working odd jobs and bar shifts until 19 when BOOM, he was scouted for a juicy action flick starring all the great actors like – like whatshisname and whozzit.

Stiles wasn’t actually paying much attention to the other guys.

Since then Derek’s career had snowballed into absolute stardom until one shining and overwhelming fact was left for Stiles to realize.

The entire world was in love with Derek Hale.

Which was kinda funny, seeing as the ‘real’ Derek seemed in equal parts surly, grumpy and _maybe_ charming. And kissy. And stupid and kissy and a big stupid _kissy kisser._ Stiles wails and smooshes the keyboard on his laptop, hoping that a little keymashing with soothe his anguish. What the hell was that kiss about? Was it a friends thing? Was it a come-on? Was it just a superstars way of brightening up the ‘normal persons’ day? Was Derek European?

Stiles sighs, already tired of the confusion swirling in his mind. It would be easier if they were characters in a book. That way, Stiles could flip to the ending and see if they ever do meet again.

Though the stories Stiles stocks tend to have bloody and tragic endings, so maybe he should steer clear of them. Especially the Greek ones, lest he and Derek end up in an incestual deity clusterfuck.  

“You’re an ass.” Stiles informs the picture of Derek he’d dragged up on screen. “I’m the guy who owns a rickety little bookshop and has the quirky nickname. _I’m_ meant to be the enigmatic little firecracker, not you!”

Derek stares back at him, eyes glossy and unmoved.

* * *

 

“Isaac, I need your share of the rent.”

Isaac tears himself away from the West Wing and gives Stiles a small, apologetic smile.

“Uh, we agreed that I didn’t have to pay this month, remember? Because I paid for the rewiring for the store, so, um. Yeah.”

Stiles stills. For one, Horror-struck moment he thinks he might not be able to make rent payments by himself. He overspent on restocking, he needs to take his Jeep to the mechanic and the shop hasn’t even broken even this month –

Except yes it has, because Derek Hale bought all those perfectly expensive books. Stiles exhales a sigh of relief, thanking his lucky stars for famous actors who are willing to fork out for pricey hardbacks.

“Sorry, must’ve slipped my mind. Don’t worry about it.”

Isaac chews his lip, watching Stiles’ expression carefully, “if you really need the money - ”

Stiles holds up a hand, “Dude, it’s all good. We actually had a customer who bought those Tyson E. Lewis werewolf books. You know, the really expensive ones that weigh as much as a small child? Like, a tiny, tiny child, but a child nonetheless”

Isaac does a kind of double take at that, looking seriously impressed. For half a millisecond, Stiles considers telling him _who_ bought them, but something stops him. As strange as it sounds, the Derek thing is kind of hisnutty, weird, frustrating, kiss-and-run little secret and Stiles doesn’t want to share it. Not just yet.

“Really? Who?”

“Some, uh, collector came in and bought a load.”

Isaac brightens, “That’s lucky!” he says happily, pacified by the excuse. Stiles grins tightly and retreats into his bedroom, swearing as he stubs his toe on the broken step of the staircase that leads up to his room.

“Step?” Isaac calls as Stiles swears his metaphorical tits off.

“Step.” Stiles confirms, massaging his throbbing toe.

“We need to get that fixed. I’m tired of nearly breaking my neck every time I decide to brave that deathtrap of a staircase.”

“Deathtrap? _Au contraire._ This place has total shabby-chic charm. It’s called character.”

“It’s called a health hazard.”

* * *

 

Stiles has lived in his apartment for 4 years. He and Scott moved in straight after college – the apartment was cheap, mainly because it was kind of a ‘fixer-upper’. The store had then been simply an unloved room below them, occupied by rickety bookshelves sparsely dotted with abandoned books and faded _Out of Business_ signs stuck in the smeared windows.

“You should buy it,” Scott had said one day. “You’ve always wanted a bookstore.”

And Stiles _had,_ but he didn’t really have the money, so the idea was shelved as just another dream and left at that.

For about six months.

Then Stiles’ Uncle Jay died. The weird thing was, Stiles had never been that close with Uncle Jay. The last time he saw the guy was his mom’s funeral and yet, exactly a year after Scott and Stiles had moved in, Stiles received a call from his dad saying that Uncle Jay had left Stiles money in his will.

Like, a hefty chunk of money.

“It’s a _sign,”_ Scott had breathed, looking awestruck. Stiles frowned.

“Sign for what?”

“The store! You could make a deposit and there’s enough there for a year or so of rent and by then you’re _bound_ to be making enough money to be able to fund it. Dude! You can buy the store!”

The naivety with which they’d made their business plan probably had something to do with how quickly everything had crashed and burned in the finance department. Still, Stiles was an optimist and he firmly believed that since he was managing to either break even or make tiny profits every month, then his business was going well. Scott was happily interning at a Vet clinic and was always awesomely prompt with his half of the apartment rent. Back then, everything was good. Everything _worked._

And then Zippy the Schnauzer got hit by a car.

Which may not sound like a turning point, but it kind of was. Because Zippy’s owner was Allison Argent, and somewhere in between suturing and making sure her beloved pet was okay, Scott had decided to ask Allison out for dinner and six months after that, the two decided to move in with each other.

So, yay, good for them, true love, all that stuff. Stiles _totally_ didn’t resent the fact his best buddy was abandoning him and _obviously_ didn’t comment on how fast everything was moving, because that would make him an awful best friend. Besides, Allison was pretty awesome and everything but could definitely kick his ass, so he shut up out of loyalty and a tiny bit of fear.

So there Stiles was, alone in his apartment, drowning in rent payments and regretting about 672 of his life choices. Then a curly haired miracle by the name of Isaac Lahey arrived on his doorstep, asking about the spare room. Life stopped being so cataclysmically suckish and became pretty sweet again. After some time, Isaac’s best friend Erica somehow melded herself into Stiles’ circle of friends and then Scott decided that Isaac _simply had to_ meet Danny-From-The-Gym, and relationship history was made. Or something like that.

Since then, Danny kind of became a permanent fixture at Stiles and Isaac’s humble home. It’s actually a good thing. He’s kind of like a really hot Martha Stewart, sprinkling the scent of Vanilla Dreams potpourri wherever he goes.

“Zesty,” Stiles comments as Danny places a ceramic bowl of withered leaves next to his propped up legs on the coffee table.

“Apparently it’s an ‘Orange Climax’,” Danny replies, batting Stiles’ legs away and scrubbing at a teeny tiny barely-there scuff.

Okay, so Danny’s cleanliness obsession is a little irritating. At least he keeps the apartment presentable for the group gatherings – every Friday evening. Food, wine, gossip. They were essentially middle-aged women but Stiles didn’t actually mind – after all, rosé wine was freaking delicious.

A timer pings in the kitchen and Danny immediately abandons his fussing to skitter into the kitchen, ratty Linoleum sticking under his feet. Isaac spots Stiles’ semi-glare and his defiant reapplication of feet onto the table.

“Don’t be like that.” Isaac huffs. “If it wasn’t for Danny, we’d all be sitting in a pile of garbage, eating your infamous Cap’n Crunch and chocolate milk ‘soup’ for dinner.”

“Why do you say it like that? It’s warm, it’s liquid, therefore it’s soup.”

“It’s cereal, Stiles. It’s tepid cereal you ran through a blender.”

Stiles grouses, “You’re just taking Danny’s side because you _luuurve_ him. Why don’t you guys just shack up together and leave me and my culinary genius alone?”

Of course Stiles is joking, since he really needs a roommate for the financial support, but Isaac stills suddenly and he licks his lips, “Hey, well, now that you mention - ”

The doorbell rings. Well, the doorbell doesn’t really ring as is it does make a low, half-chime, half-moo which tapers off into a mutedtrill _._ Stiles springs to his feet, making a mental note to get that doorbell fixed. Stiles flings the door open (which creaks ominously on its hinges) and Scott and Allison scurry in, dripping with rain.

“Hey man! Sorry we’re late, there’s crazy traffic tonight.”

Scott grabs Stiles for the usual bear hug and Allison greets him with the standard cheek kiss, both breezing through into the kitchen, calling greetings to Danny and Isaac. They only have to wait for a few minutes to hear the familiar growl of Erica’s motorbike and too see her swaggering up the stairs in a similar sodden state.

“Traffic was a bitch tonight, Batman.”  She thrusts a bottle into his hands and wanders off into the living room, Stiles following her. “So what’s new with you?”

Suddenly, Stiles wants to tell her everything. It’s _Erica_ and Erica would understand and then probably either high five him for kissing a movie star or punch him in the arm for not managing to get into said movie star’s pants.

“Stiles?”

“Nothing, uh – just. Nothing. You?”

Erica rattles off her week in an increasingly disparaging tone as drinks and nibbles are handed out. Once Erica’s finished badmouthing every last co-worker at the restaurant, the group gravitates towards the living room. Naturally, the couples are smooshed together and Erica commandeers the comfy window seat, leaving Stiles to slump on the floor and stew over his thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asks cautiously as Stiles begins to down wine with vigor. Allison gives a sympathetic, knowing grin.

“Boy troubles?”

“Something like that,” Stiles mutters into his glass. 

“Are you dating someone?” Scott asks, face breaking into a smile. “Dude!”

“Nope. Still single.” If Stiles happened to sound a little bitter, well you couldn’t blame him. Not when he was surrounded by absolute true love every second of the day. “Still endlessly single.”

Erica draws out her phone, tapping away, “I know few people who would probably date you. You’re okay with someone who’s had previous criminal convictions, right?”

As charming as the probable dates sounded, Stiles found himself shaking his head emphatically and saying a firm, “No! No, thanks. I don’t want just ‘dates’ though, that’s the thing. I want a _relationship,_ like a lovey-dovey relationship,”he sighs miserably, _“_ does that make me all kinds of pathetic?”

The room goes awkwardly silently. Stiles decides to invest in better friends.

* * *

 

“So Isaac,” Erica asks, stabbing into her pasta. “How’s freelancing working out for you? Still out to be a journalist or have you resigned yourself to wasting away in the store?”

Stiles tries to shoot her a withering glare. Erica doesn’t seem at all bothered.

Isaac sighs, slugging back his drink. “Crappy. I’m going to end up producing pointless drivel for some defunct publication like _Knitting Monthly.”_

Which is actually kind of hypocritical, since Isaac has always seemed a pretty huge fan of knitwear.

“They’ll be lucky to have you there,” Danny says, kissing Isaac softly on the cheek. “You’ll write the very best articles the advantages of four ply wool.”

Isaac grins and returns the kiss. Stiles refuses to feel jealous.

* * *

 

After the dinner plates had been cleared away, the conversation turned back to Stiles’ love life (or lack thereof) After ten minutes of having his previous relationships dragged out and examined within an inch of themselves, Stiles has buried his face in his hands, cringing to the extreme.

“The thing about relationships,” Scott says, sounding strangely wise and knowing, “especially serious ones, is that you’ve got to be willing to make changes in yourself, without necessarily changing as a person. Small sacrifices and compromise are key.” The room murmurs in agreement. Stiles uncovers his eyes,

“What.”

“Well,” Isaac pipes up, “Danny dropped out of that hacking syndicate for me. I asked, and he made that sacrifice.”

“And because he nearly got arrested,” Erica points out.

“Well, yeah,” Isaac says fairly, “but after I told him that I didn’t like the intermittent threat of his arrest and subsequent jail time, he quit like _that_ ,” Isaac snaps his fingers, looking all too smug. Danny nods seriously. 

“Conjugal visits wouldn’t cut it,” he explains, “also, orange jumpsuits aren’t really my style.”

“Touching,” Stiles says, hoping he sounds halfway sincere. Isaac may’ve asked Danny to cut out the sort-of-definitely-illegal hacking activities, but he also could have told Danny he thought bloody stumps were totally sexy, and Danny probably would’ve sawn an arm off.

“It’s true, though,” Allison laces a hand around Scott’s. “Good relationships need compromise and acceptance of faults. _Lasting_ relationships are based on equality and respect.”

Scott nods, looking vaguely star struck.  When Erica hands Allison a glass of wine, and Allison smiles gratefully, her dimples dipping prettily in her cheeks; Scott makes a strange whining noise.

“That’s it,” he whimpers, “I can’t do it anymore.”

Allison turns to Scott, forehead creased in concern, “can’t do what anymore?”

“ _Wait.”_

“For what? Scott, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, that’s the thing,” Scott says breathlessly. “It’s just so _perfect._ Everything with us, with _you,_ is perfect. _”_

Scott glances to Stiles, and suddenly, Stiles realizes. Sure Scott’s been waxing poetic about Allison’s sheer existence ever since he lay eyes on herand he’s made a few drunken confessions about having bought the ring 3 months after they started dating, but Stiles never thought – never imagined that the day would come and –

Oh God.

His best buddy is taking the plunge.

“Allison,” Scott slides from the sofa and gets on one knee. “I don’t really know how to say this – I want to tell you how much I love you, and how amazing I think you are but I really can’t find the words, so – so I’ll just ask and hope the answer is yes - ” he takes a deep breath, despite all in the room knowing exactly what he’s about to say next. “Will you marry me?”

Stiles hears someone squealing and then realizes it’s him. Whatever. Isaac is definitely crying, Danny is gawking like Scott is holding the Holy Grail and even Erica looks slightly shellshocked.

Allison bursts into tears. She doesn’t actually answer, but since she’s holding out her trembling hand and seems to have no qualms with Scott slipping the glinting diamond ring on it, Stiles guesses it’s a firm and resounding _yes._

* * *

 

The rest of the evening had been a blur of giddy squealing and general loving bliss emanating from Scott and Allison. Erica and Isaac disappeared for a Champagne Run (the classy version of a Beer Run) and the festivities ran late into the night.

Which is why Stiles awakes with such a splitting hangover. He rolls from his bed, groaning as he realized he’d slept through three alarms and straight into the afternoon. Bleary eyed and headachey, he stumbles into the shower, wobbles into a pair of pants and tramps down the stairs whilst trying to wrestle his way into a t-shirt.

Isaac sits at the desk, pricing up some faded pixie lore books. When he hears Stiles stumble through the doorway into the shop, he turns around, grinning.

“Afternoon,” he says cheerfully, spinning on the stool. “It’s okay, I opened up shop for you, but you didn’t miss much. We had a couple of people come in and browse and someone bought a book on Leprechauns.”

Stiles can’t answer. He’s too busy gawking at Isaac’s clothes. Or rather, _Danny’s_ clothes. For thrown over Isaac’s shirt is the blue Lakers hoodie that Derek had walked off with and definitely not given back.

“Where did you get that hoodie?” Stiles asks, his gut plummeting suddenly. Isaac glances down to himself and shrugs.

“It’s one of Danny’s.”

“But where did youfind it?”

Isaac eyes Stiles curiously, “it was just lying on the shop counter.” 

“So what, was it there when you opened up?”

Isaac considers this and a look of realization slowly dawns on him, “no, actually. I came back from grabbing some food and it was there.”

Disregarding the fact that Isaac left the shop _unattended,_ Stiles settles against the desk, feigning a casual tone, “that’s kinda weird, don’t you think?”

“Uh, I guess. Didn’t really occur to me at the time, I figured I just hadn’t noticed it until then.”

“Well did you notice anything weird about it?”

“Anything else weird.” Isaac repeats, frowning. “Not really, no. Should there have been?”

“Like was there note with it? Was it in a bag? Did it look like it had been worn recently or had it be cleaned? Did it … _smell weird?”_ Stiles presses desperately, already clutching at the metaphorical straws. Isaac warily sniffs at the fabric and a warm smile slowly seeps onto his face.

“Smells like Armani,” he says dreamily. “Why, what were you hoping for? Teen Spirit?”

Stiles ignores this, his heart fluttering giddily. Maybe Derek had returned the hoodie because he was being polite or maybe he’d dropped by because he wanted to see Stiles or maybe – maybe _something._ Stiles curses his Hangover-induced coma and flings a hand in the general direction of Isaac and the hoodie in one last desperate stab for clues. “Have you checked the pockets?”

Isaac rifles in the pockets, sighing. He then frowns and withdraws a small folded piece of paper.

Something swoops low in Stiles’ belly.

“That’s weird,” Isaac says, turning the slip of paper over in his hand. “It’s got your name on it.” he shows Stiles the paper and sure enough his name is printed on the front in an elegant scrawl. Stiles scrambles to snatch it from Isaac and unfolds it, reading the contents hungrily.

_Rosehip Hotel, today, 4pm. Ask for Miguel_

Stiles checks the time, heart pounding frantically.

4:30. Crap. Maybe he still has time? Maybe Derek will be okay with being accidentally stood up? Stiles’ mind begins to whir again and he’s long given up on keeping this crush low level and dignified because _Derek Hale_ wants to _see him again_ after they _kissed._

Though maybe he’s going to do some Men in Black memory wipe thing or tell Stiles that if the media finds out, Derek will rip his throat out or something.

“Can you cover the store today?” Stiles asks, coming back to the Land of Sane People and Dereklessness for a split second. Isaac blinks, looking mildly bewildered at the sudden desperation.

“Uh, sure, I guess. Though I actually do need to talk to you about - ”

“Thanks man!” Stiles grabs his jacket and is halfway out of the door before Isaac can finish his sentence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This chapter is mainly exposition, but it'll all become clear later on. Probably. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr as [plantolio](http://plantolio.tumblr.com/). This has been a shameless plug.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Ashley](http://unintentionalgenius.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (I kind of play with the reality of the press situation in this chapter. It's based around something similar that happens in Notting Hill, so that's my defence)

The Rosehip hotel is a frustratingly long drive away and a whole other world from the crumbled, wonky buildings that tower over Stiles’ part of town. As Stiles parks his Jeep amongst the fleet of Bentleys and Beamers, he can’t help but feel a little rough around the edges. He can’t help but feel a strange well of anxiety and anticipation either.

The doorman eyes Stiles beadily as he passes through, heading for the front desk. Stiles ignores this and instead clears his throat to alert the aged concierge to his presence. The concierge glances up, and immediately Stiles realises that the whole throat clearing thing was probably kinda rude – oh crap, he was so not versed in the ways of the privileged and wealthy.

The concierge glances upwards, taking in Stiles’ crumpled clothes with a small imperious sniff.

“May I help you, Sir?” he asks in a tone that suggests he wishes to do anything but. Stiles licks his lips, hoping to God this isn’t some cruel trick.

“I’m here to meet Miguel.”

If the concierge is surprised by Stiles – who admittedly, probably should’ve thought the throw on a shirt that had actually seen an iron the past few days – asking for Derek and using what is presumably a super-secret pseudonym, he doesn’t show it. Instead the concierge pauses briefly and glances down an open book on his desk.

“Mr. Miguel is currently at a press engagement. May I pass on a message?”

“Oh,” Stiles falters awkwardly, scuffing his converse on the tiled marble floors, “um, just that – uh, Stiles got his message kinda late and – yeah, he’s, I’m, like, sorry and um – if he wants to meet up again, that would be – awesome.”

The concierge writes this down, word for word, and glances up, “You are presumably ‘Mr. Stiles’?” he asks, unsmiling. Stiles nods and the concierge neatly prints it down. “I shall pass on the message as swiftly as possible. Good day, sir.”

“Yeah,” Stiles jams his hands into his pockets and saunters away. “Thanks.”

There’s an odd deflating feeling running through him. All the dizzy adrenaline and wild fantastical beliefs escapes, leaving Stiles running on nothing but disappointment. He’d had the chance to see Derek again and he totally and utterly blew it. Who knows when this press engagement will finish or even where it is?

The rain is pounding down as Stiles steps from the hotel. He swiftly ducks into the shelter of his Jeep and starts up the engine, which rattles unpleasantly and then falls silent.

“Oh no,” Stiles mutters, frantically attempting and re-attempting to start it up. “Oh come on buddy, please. I believe in you. You can do it,please.”

But this seems to be one situation that Stiles can’t Little-Engine-That-Could his way out of.

[TO:SCOTTY][16:59]will sell soul for ride from rosehip hotel

[FROM: SCOTTY][16:59] When u need it? cant help until 8,dinner w/ als parents. were telling them abt the engagement

Stiles stares at the screen in defeat. He can’t even catch a break when getting a ride home – nevertheless, he can’t really afford to be picky, so he simply sends a thanks man! and flops back into his seat.

His Jeep is freezing.

Like, Antarctic levels of freezing. There may actually be penguins slipping and sliding around the seats, he’s not sure. Rain pelts down harder than ever and Stiles sighs, staring wistfully through his Jeep window into the brightly lit warm interior of the Rosehip.

It looks warm. And dry. And comfy.

Stiles makes a split second decision and charges out into the rain and makes a beeline for the entrance to the hotel. His wet shoes skitter noisily on the floor and the concierge looks up again, frowning.

“S’up,” Stiles nods. “Good to see you again.”

The concierge clearly does not echo the sentiment and Stiles blushes a stupid sort of pink before ducking away into the nearest bathroom.

At least, he thought it was a bathroom. The total lack of toilets or sinks or general bathroom paraphernalia seem to hint that he was a bit very wrong with his assumption.  

“Form an orderly queue and take your press pass, one at a time please. One at a time.”

The shout nearly makes Stiles jump out of his skin. He turns to the source of the noise, only to be consumed by a crush of people. Stiles squeals as a besuited man nearly elbows him in the face.

“Hey man, watch it!”

“Watch it yourself, the line is moving this way,” a woman nudges Stiles backwards, frowning at his bafflement.  “Are you coming?”

Stiles gawps, “What?”

“You’re with the press, right?” the besuited man supplies impatiently. “Sorry, it’s just - ” he gestures around him. “You’re in the press waiting room.”

“What?”

“Press? Wolfstrike interviews? Derek Hale, Vernon Boyd, that whole lot?”

Stiles follows the man’s indication to see the honking great sign which indeed, proudly proclaims that he, Stiles Stilinski (who is not actually Press) is in the press waiting room. Waiting to meet Derek Hale. As press. Which he, Stiles, is actually not.

Life is a cruel bitch with a crappy sense of humour.

However, Stiles doesn’t quite know how to explain his current predicament without sounding like a total moron. (how is one actually meant to communicate ‘I was looking for the bathroom’ intelligently?) so he swallows his stuttered explanation and instead choses to hastily scramble over. He’ll just have to wait for the room to clear or something and then make his escape. How he’ll make his escape is still a mystery, but one thing remains certain; he’s going to push all thoughts of this afternoon away into the big box in his brain marked ‘to be repressed’.

The woman snatches up what is apparently her press pass from a large desk and her companion does the same, both lost in conversation with each other.  Stiles hangs back awkwardly, attempting to edge his way to the fire exit which may just prove to be his saviour.

_This door is alarmed_

“You’re not the only one.” Stiles mutters. All he wanted was to do was go home and now he’s trapped in a press waiting room. The crowd is still herding in, knocking Stiles back in every attempt he makes to flee.

“Well, uh,” he awkwardly settles into a spindly wooden chair and admits defeat, “I’m just gonna wait here.”

No one acknowledges him. It’s probably a good thing.

The door swooshes open again and a redheaded woman enters, who is all scary and official looking and looks as if she could disembowel Stiles with a flick of her beautifully manicured nails. She frowns down at her iPad and then slides her gaze to the lone press pass on the table.

“Michael? Michael Laughton?” Redhead calls. No one in the crowd moves, all of them either checking BlackBerrys or flipping through notes. Redhead’s lips thin.

“Michael Laughton?” She repeats impatiently. “Michael Laughton, your interview slot with Derek Hale is now.”

No reply. The crowd continues to talk amongst themselves whilst Stiles’ newly installed Derek sensor goes haywire. Derek. Derek. Derek is here. Derek is here. Derek is here.

And suddenly, Stiles stands.

And he walks over to her.

And he must be insane, but he looks her dead in the eye and says,

“I’m Michael Laughton.”

Redhead hands the pass over without so much as a second glance. “Derek Hale is free.” She says dismissively, turning back to her iPad.

Oh. Good. God. It worked.

“I, um.” Stiles clears his throat. “I - what?”

The woman sighs impatiently and wordlessly gestures for Stiles to follow, leading him up the corridor, to a large, white door.

“Ten minutes, keep questions brief, please limit questions to the movie and Mr. Hale’s thoughts on the movie, please do not inquire into any areas of his personal life he does not wish to disclose as highlighted in your press packet. Press photos will be emailed to your headquarters – I take it you’re new?”

_To identity theft? Yeah, kinda. I once pretended to be a police officer when I was 7 and tried to arrest people for littering, but somehow I don’t think this is going to end up with being thrown into a dumpster by some High School kids. It might end in jail._

“Er, yeah, I’m new.” Stiles mutters. “Really new. So new. The newest - ”

The woman raises an eyebrow. Stiles falls silent.

“This way.”

She pushes the door open and there Derek is; lounging on a couch, sipping a coffee and looking vaguely annoyed.

Stiles is a little twitterpated, he has to admit.

“Lydia, I told you - ”

Derek looks up and his mouth kind of falls open. Granted, he schools his features pretty damn quickly and smiles pleasantly.

“Mr. Hale, this is Michael Laughton.”

Stiles waves. Stiles then realises he looks like a total dork. Stiles stops waving.

“He’s new,” Lydia adds, sounding as though being new is a most heinous crime. Derek smiles and it can only be described as evil.

“Michael, you said?” He reclines into his chair, gaze raking over Stiles, “I’ve never seen you at one of these press events before.”

“Like she said. Newbie.”

“Well, are you new to your magazine, or to journalism in general?”

“I, uh, new – new to - ” Stiles glances to Lydia, who’s eyeing him suspiciously and back to Derek, who’s grinning like the cat who got the canary, “I am new to my magazine.”

“And what is your magazine?”

Oh God he’s a bastard. A smug bastard with a stupid smug smirk that Stiles wants to kiss straight off his stupid, smug face. Stiles squirms.

“Um. My magazine? It’s, um.”

Just think of a magazine.

“Have you ever heard of - ?”

Any magazine

“Meaning, are you familiar with - ”

Any. Damn. Magazine.

“The very many writings of - ”

JUST DO IT, IDIOT

“Knitting Monthly?”

Nailed it.

Derek snorts and hastily disguises it as a cough. Lydia turns back to Stiles and Stiles near-crumbles under the weight of her heavy scrutiny.

“I’ve never heard of that magazine,” she says. Stiles beams despite the utter mortification which is this very moment.

“Well, like me they’re very new.”

Stiles has a theory that he murdered a bunch of orphaned kittens or something in his past life. That and only that can be the reason for his absolutely horrendous luck and his total inability to lie convincingly. Lydia purses her lips.

“Right – but I don’t remember a Michael Laughton ever working for Knitting Monthly. From what I recall from my list, you work for New Cinema.”

“That’s a typo.”

“As those two words are so often confused,” Derek mutters, eyes glinting in amusement.

Maybe all the crap that happens to Stiles isn’t because he was asshole in a past life. Maybe all the bad crap that happens to him is kind of pre-emptive karma for being such an asshole in this one.  But because Stiles is unlucky with an emphasis on the  _Un_ , Derek seems to want to drag out this charade for as long as humanly possible. Derek clears his throat.

“I wouldn’t think that Wolfstrike would appeal to the readers of a publication like yours.”

“We have a small section about films you may enjoy watching whilst knitting.” Stiles shoots back loftily. Derek looks as if he’s having major difficulty containing his laughter (or is that anger trembling onto his features?)

“Well,” Lydia says into the silence. “I’ll leave you to it. Ten minutes, Mr. Laughton.”

And with that, she sweeps out of the room and Stiles is alone. With Derek.

“What the hell?!” Stiles hisses as soon as the door clicks shut.

“What?”

“You purposely tried to humiliate me!” Stiles whisper-wails. Derek glowers.

“You stood me up! You’re pretending to be from a knitting magazine! You committed _fraud_!”

“Well, technically it’s not fraud, it’s identity theft – oh wow, you’ve got one hell of a glare, yeah so I’ll just stop talking. Just please don’t think I’m some sort of crazed stalker or master criminal - ”

“Master criminal,” Derek repeats with a derisive snort.

“ – I just, I woke up late and I got here as soon as I could and then there was this guy who was all ‘Mr. Hale is at a press gig’ and I was like _‘nooo’_ and then there was this whole thing with a freaking stampede of people and I was like _‘ahhh_ ’ if we’re honest, I was just looking to hide in a bathroom - ”

Derek cranks up the glaritude and Stiles wouldn’t even be surprised if the furniture caught alight.

“I thought you wanted to meet me.” Stiles finishes meekly. Derek bristles.

“I did want to meet you. At four. To apologise for - ” Derek gestures and Stiles assumes he’s aiming for ‘kissing you’. “I thought it would be nice and civilized and I didn’t expect you to crash a press event.”

Okay. So Derek may have a point.

Well, Derek may have several points. And a reason for the humiliation.

Okay, so Derek definitely has about eight points and a well presented reason. It’s like he wrote out an entire freaking essay (with bibliography) and Stiles tried to counter it by sneezing into to a tissue and then writing his name on it.

“I’m the worst person ever!” Stiles wails. Derek glares.

“I know.”

“Please can we just start over and erase the entirety of this afternoon from our history?”

Derek would be entirely justified in saying no and having Stiles ejected by security. Hell, it’s kind of what Stiles is expecting, so he’s a little surprised to see Derek crack just a hint of a smile and say.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Stiles repeats, his voice breaking ridiculously.

“Fine. But on two conditions.”

“Name them.”

“One, you don’t tell anybody about me coming to your store.”

“Sure.”

“Two, nothing we discuss here goes beyond these four walls.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Stiles sits up a little higher, safe in the knowledge that he isn’t about to be ejected bodily from the room. “So, did you only want to see me to apologise for the whole kiss and run thing?”

“Partially.”

“Well, I’m really glad you contacted me and I’m also really glad that you somehow returned the hoodie. Especially since your usual MO is to hand it to random homeless people.”

Derek giggles – legitimately giggles like, oh God, that shouldn’t be legal – and leans forward as if to let Stiles in on a secret.

And then the door swings open.

“The next journalist is waiting,” Lydia says, without looking up from her iPad. “If you have any additional questions, please direct them to the contact number included with your press pack.”

Stiles’ spluttering does nothing to halt Lydia from bulldozing her way to him and half-herding him from the room. “Right this way – ahem, Mr. Laughton, was it?” She begins to shove him out of the door, only to be interrupted by Derek clearing his throat.

“Mr. Laughton,” Derek calls. Stiles turns back a little desperately. “I’m sorry we couldn’t cover all the subjects you wished to,” he scribbles something on a napkin, folds it in two and hands it over. “Here are a few details I think you should have.”

Stiles takes the napkin in a trembling hand, risking a quick peek when Lydia begins to look as though she’s limbering up to kick him out of the room.

_Dining room, 7pm, ask for Miguel again_

“Oh,” Stiles says as soon as he reads it, eyes widening, “oh.”

Derek smiles his eyes crease and dimples briefly flash in his cheeks and Stiles knows that he’s screwed.

* * *

 

Actually, Stiles really is screwed.

Not because he’s crazy for a film star.

Not because there’s no way in hell he could get with said film star.

No.

Stiles is screwed.

Because he’s not actually a fucking journalist.

“So,” Stiles flips his notepad open and clears his throat nervously. “Mr. Whittemore.”

Mr. Whittemore slouches in his chair, “yeah?” he asks, jaw slack with gum.

“Mr. Whittemore,” Stiles repeats, “do you … identify with your character?”

Mr. Whittemore blinks slowly and uncrosses his arms. He mutters the question to himself under his breath and eventually, after much deliberation, says, “No.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Whittemore blinks again.

“I play a psychopathic, homicidal were-lizard.”

“Right,” Stiles wonders briefly if he could crawl out of the bathroom window without anyone noticing. “Awesome.”

* * *

 

The interviews were a disaster. Every time Stiles tried to make a break for freedom, Lydia would steer him to the next room, to the next movie star, to the next torture session.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of – er, what other publications have you written for?”

“Oh, you know, this and that,” Stiles says with as much confidence as a guy pretending to be representing a fucking knitting magazine can have.

“Um,” Boyd – who has actually turned out to be a mercifully decent guy – nods. “Interesting.”

Stiles smiles breezily. Please let this be over soon. Please, please let this be over soon.

* * *

 

God might actually be giving Stiles a break. Or Karma. Or whatever higher being is in operation at that time, either way, Stiles is eventually free from the interviews and heads straight for the dining room – which should, if Derek isn’t being a giant meanie hopes-getter-upper – be the place where his dreams come true.

Or something like that.

The dining room is alight with conversation and the clinking of cutlery and glasses. Stiles fidgets awkwardly, his converse looking scruffier than ever against the thick, plush carpet.

“Can I help you?”

A short, blonde girl seems to glide up to Stiles, her name badge glints with the name ‘Becky’ and she smiles warmly. Stiles returns the smile, still anxiously sweeping the room for Derek.

“Do you know where Der – Miguel usually sits?”

Becky grins conspiratorially and motions for Stiles to follow her, “Mr. Miguel booked a private dinner room this evening.” She spots the press pass Stiles had neglected to remove and smiles. “They’re more suited for interviews.”

Oh right. Probably better to let her think that since as far as Stiles is aware, Derek’s probable bisexuality isn’t well known at all. Even Stiles is on the fence about it. Damn. Is this a date? A practical joke? When will Derek stop being so infuriatingly mysterious?

Becky seems to be visibly steeling herself, taking a deep inhale as she leads Stiles into a smile side room.

“Mr. Hale, your dinner guest has arrived.”

There’s an audible tremble to Becky’s tone and she sounds as if she’s having difficulty holding in her giggles. Derek looks up from his phone and smiles.

“Thank you.”

“Do you require anything else sir?”

Derek looks back to Becky. Stiles sees her cheeks flush.

“Nothing at all,” Derek flicks his gaze down to her name badge, “Becky. You’ve been excellent.”

Becky is now bright red and practically vibrating on the spot.

“My pleasure, sir,” she breathes through her toothy smile.

“Thank you Becky.”

“Goodbye, sir.” Becky stays firmly planted on the spot, eyes glazed over slightly. Stiles helpfully nudges her arm and she lets out an audible squeal and near vaults from the room.  

“So,” Stiles says, sauntering over to the available chair, “she was starstruck.”

“It happens.”

“Your modesty is such an admirable quality.”

“It’s been said. Would you like anything to drink?”

“Er, what is there?” Stiles is pretty confident Derek isn’t going to say Fudge flavoured Yoo Hoo, but hey, there’s always hope. Derek hums thoughtfully, perusing the drinks table.

“Wine, champagne, rum, whisky or I could always mix you something if you wanted.”

“Really?”

“I worked at a cocktail bar in LA when I was still trying to get my first big break.”

As much as Stiles would like to see Derek’s drink mixing finesse, he’s pretty keen to retain at least some sense of sophistication and ordering a Screaming Orgasm might kind of expose his total lack of suavity.

Heh. Screaming Orgasm.

“Whisky,” Stiles says confidently, taking the glass with a totally nonchalant air. Because he is a suave, sophisticated young man who can so ooze an air of total confidence and ease with life, it’s just a matter of –

Oh god, his throat is on fire.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, looking genuinely concerned. Stiles splutters and nods.

“Yeah, totally dude.”

“Your eyes are watering.”

“Well, have you ever had a glass of whisky so damn fine that you just get a little bit emotional? That’s me right now, I’m tearing up, I’m - ”

Derek prises the glass from Stiles hand and plucks up the decanter, “so you want another?” he asks doubtfully.

Stiles stares into the amber death beverage defiantly. “You should join me.”

“Oh no, not for me,” Derek says airily, pouring Stiles another and then beginning work on a deliciously crisp looking pink cocktail, “I hate whisky.”

* * *

 

Stiles is a little tipsy and definitely too full. Still he finds himself cramming in another mouthful of steak and swigging back the last of his cocktail, which he had eventually caved into accepting.

“You want dessert?”

“Eh.”

“You have such a way with words, it’s no surprise you’re a journalist.”

“Screw you, Hale. Or should that be ‘Miguel’?”

Derek smiles lazily, “don’t blame me for that, my sisters chose it.”

“Why did they pick Miguel?”

Derek shrugs. “I think they thought it was amusing. The two of them and Mom are generally the only people I let contact me, so it’s just easier to let them pick. Although last time, I did end up being called Cinderella -  but I don’t mind as long as I get my privacy and don’t get any, um - ” he clears his throat and Stiles grins sheepishly.

“Me’s?”

There’s a small pause.

“No,” Derek says softly and with smile. “I don’t think I mind ‘you’s’. I invited you to dinner, didn’t I?”

The sound Stiles is making is only audible to dogs and maybe old ladies with their hearing aids turned up real high. He retrains himself from jigging a happy jig and focuses on Derek’s perfectly lovely lips as they form words.

“That aside, I’ve got to admit that I was a little surprised to see you just…walk in to a press event.”

“Yeah, well, it was an accident, I swear.”

“How?”

“I wish I knew,” Stiles says sadly, “I just know that I could sit in a padded room six thousand miles away from civilization and still end up with a good dinner party story by the end of the day.”

Derek snorts and reaches over to top up Stiles’ drink. He’s just close enough that Stiles could tug him in for a kiss and –

Why the hell is his ass vibrating?

Oh. Yeah. His phone. Stiles checks it with an apologetic grimace, which melts away into disappointment at the sight of the text.

[FROM: SCOTTY][20:14] im by the front door, where are u??

“I have to go.” Stiles says quietly. Derek looks up quickly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles stands, only realising how much he’d drunk when his head swims with the movement. The Dutch courage actually helps him with his next words however, as he swallows his pride and turns to Derek.

“D’you wanna maybe meet up again?”

“Of course.”

Of course. Oh. God. Those words shouldn’t sound so sexy and Derek shouldn’t be allowed to purr them so deliciously.

“When?”

“I’ll give you my number.” Derek procures a pen and prints a few digits neatly on Stiles’ hand.

“Okay, well.” Stiles’ breathing halts entirely at the tickle of the pen. When Derek lifts Stiles’ hand to his lips and presses the barest whisper of a kiss to his skin, Stiles swears he hears angels fucking yodelling or something. “I’ll call you, then.”

* * *

 

It’s probably cold as balls outside, but Stiles is way too ecstatic to care. He skips over to where Scott is waiting and beams beatifically, receiving a small grin in return.

“Hey,” Scott greets, holding out a hand to steady Stiles. “So why did you need rescuing from this place? And why are you so...drunk?”

“I was drinking with someone.”

Scott’s face breaks out into a sly smile, “Someone or ‘someone’?”

Stiles leans against the car in an attempt to stop the world from spinning and grins dopily to himself.

“I don’t know yet.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr as [plantolio](http://plantolio.tumblr.com/) and I fic stuff about things. This has been a shameless plug.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at scheduled updates. Terrible. And for that I can only apologise for that and maybe cry a little.
> 
> Anyway, my tumblr is [plantolio](http://plantolio.tumblr.com/), if you so feel inclined to follow-lio

Stiles saves Derek’s number to his phone during the car ride home, checking it once, twice, three times before he’s satisfied it’s saved and correct. The events of the day buzz through him dizzily and he doesn’t quite know how to process it all.  

When Scott drops him off, Stiles decides that a good hour must’ve passed since he last spoke to Derek, and that’s totally an acceptable amount of time to wait before texting someone. He writes and re-writes the first text over and over, finally satisfied with the end product of -

[FROM: ME] hey is this Miguel?

Smooth. Casual. Humorous. Nice one, Stilinski. His phone chirrups seconds later and Stiles shakily swipes at the screen, reading the message hungrily.

[FROM: DEREK] no its Derek

[FROM: ME] are you joking?

[FROM: DEREK] no im Derek

[FROM: ME] oh my god

[FROM: ME] that was so lame

[FROM: ME] im gonna fucking cry dude I don’t even care if youre not Derek im keeping you

And Derek doesn’t actually reply to that one, but it’s okay because Stiles is happy to giggle gleefully  to himself until he passes out on the couch.

* * *

 

A day passes before Stiles texts again. To be fair, he actually has a pretty solid reason for doing so.  

[FROM: ME] so i just got this call from your hotel. theyre pretty pissed about the fact I just kinda left my car in their car lot (like where else am I supposed to leave it, amirite????) and long story short, can you just stick your head out of the window and make sure that theyre not about to tow away a blue jeep???

[FROM: DEREK] they just towed away a blue jeep

[FROM: ME] balls

* * *

 

So Stiles is going to be mature about the fact that he is in possession of Derek’s number. He might not even text him for the next few days, just to prove how chill and cool he is about the whole thing.

It’s a plan that totally works out for like, eight entire hours.

Then Stiles catches sight of Derek on the front of one of Isaac’s goddawful magazines. His phone miraculously worms its way out of his pocket and into his hands and he’s typing away before he knows what’s what.

[FROM: ME] so watcha upto?

[FROM: DEREK] getting ready for the wolfstrike premier

[FROM: ME] sounds fun

[FROM: DEREK] its really not

[FROM: ME] oh? dw man, ill keep you entertained. wait for it

[FROM: ME] whats brown and sticky?

[FROM: DEREK] thats kind of gross

[FROM: ME] a stick, moron

[FROM: ME] and I got plenty more where that came from

[FROM: DEREK] oh joy

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] whose there?

[FROM: ME]*who’s

[FROM: DEREK] what?

[FROM: ME] who’s, not whose.   
Who’s = who is.   
Whose = whose fault is it that you never learnt the difference?

[FROM: DEREK] mrs malonze, 5th grade teacher.

[FROM: ME] no its your fault. dont blame you’re teachers

[FROM: ME] FUCK WAIT

[FROM: ME] HFKCJAGBE,.FG,/G’CB!

[FROM: ME] AUTOCORRECT AUTCORRECT

[FROM: DEREK] *your

[FROM: ME] AUTOCORRECT AUTOCORRECT IT DOESN’T COUNT

[FROM: DEREK] it does

[FROM: ME] no it doesnt

[FROM: DEREK] it does. So did you ever get your jeep sorted out?

[FROM: ME] it doesn’t and the jeeps impounded rn but its okay. I mean, impound lots are basically a car prison, so maybe my babys gonna come out with sweet tattoos and the know-how to make a shiv and stuff. that would be awesome (and also a great plot for a film, thoughts???)

[FROM: DEREK] I thought your store was your baby? (and no)

[FROM: ME] I can have multiple babies if i want (and screw you asshole)

 [FROM: DEREK] people pay to meet me, you know

[FROM: ME] well prostitution is a pretty lucrative business

[FROM: DEREK] funny. Id spend longer laughing but I have to get to my premier.

[FROM: ME] have fun

[FROM: DEREK] ill try

* * *

 

Stiles will behave. _Stiles will behave._ He’s been talking Derek pretty regularly now and yeah, it’s becoming a habit. So what if he texted Derek at three in the morning to ask if it was normal to dream that you married your high school sports coach in a shotgun wedding? Derek hadn’t minded. Derek though it was funny. Weird, but funny. Which is pretty much how Stiles would describe his general existence so that’s okay.

* * *

 

[FROM: ME] BAMBIS MOM JUST DIED!!!!

[FROM: DEREK] sorry to break it to you, but she died like 50 years ago

[FROM: ME] shut up i cry evry time

[FROM: ME] i haven’t been this cut up since my roommate broke my snoopy mug

[FROM: DEREK] snoopy?

[FROM: ME] dont be like that dude, it was my favourite mug. everything i poured in it automatically tasted awesome

[FROM: DEREK] oh

[FROM: DEREK] dumbo

[FROM: ME] rude

[FROM: DEREK] no, I cant watch dumbo without crying

[FROM: ME] oh

[FROM: ME] hahaa loser

[FROM: DEREK] fuck you entirely

* * *

 

[FROM: ME] man, wolfstrike is really explode-y

[FROM: DEREK] you saw it?

[FROM: ME] yeah

[FROM: DEREK] you like it?

[FROM: ME] ehh not really

[FROM: ME] kidding

[FROM: DEREK] ass

[FROM: ME] yeah I saw that too

[FROM: ME] was not expecting the full frontal nudity btw

[FROM: ME] but kudos

[FROM: ME] kudos a-plenty

* * *

 

[FROM: DEREK] what are you doing this month on the 28th of this month?

 [FROM: ME] I have a business meeting

[FROM: DEREK] you’re kidding me

[FROM: ME] no, I actually have an adult type business meeting with this guy from the bank. yknow ‘why arent you paying your bills’ ‘monopoly money isnt an accepted form of currency in the united states of america’ yadadada that sort of crap

[FROM: DEREK] all day?

[FROM: ME] probs dude, my bank guy looooves my company. any reason why you asked?

[FROM: DEREK] I’m doing a charity thing a few towns over I thought we could meet up

[FROM: ME] oh

[FROM: DEREK] never mind

[FROM: ME] some other time, right?

[FROM: DEREK] sure

* * *

 

The texts were becoming a regular part of Stiles day. During the long customerless slumps or the quiet evenings, it was a habit to just check in on Derek. It felt weird to say, but Stiles was sure that they were _friends._

Like. Friend friends. Like how he and Scott and the rest of their motely crew were friends.

Though he didn’t fantasise about licking cream off Isaac’s chest or playing strip poker with Erica (well, maybe a little) but – really, honestly and truly, Stiles was getting to know Derek more and more by the day and growing less infatuated with and more – more _ridiculously fond of_ with every text.

It was scary as hell.

* * *

 

[FROM: DEREK] a man just asked me for a picture. I stood there waiting for him to take it, then I realised that he wanted me to take a picture of him and his family and he didnt actually know who i was

[FROM: ME] i was having such a crappy day until i read this message.

* * *

 

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] no

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] no.

[FROM: ME] KNOCK KNOCK

[FROM: DEREK] stop it

[FROM: ME] KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

[FROM: DEREK] im not going to say it

[FROM: ME] yes you will. Knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] no

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] I swear to god

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: ME] I _will_ get you to say it, you know. I always win at knock knock jokes

[FROM: DEREK] you cant win a knock knock joke. its a joke!

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] stop it

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] no

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] stop it

* * *

 

Stiles is giggling just a little too loudly at one of the texts Derek sends him during the weekly friend gatheration-extravaganza. Scott cranes his neck curiously.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Stiles stuffs his phone in his pocket, along with Derek’s anecdote of the make-up artist, the stunt double and the naked extra.

“He’s been doing that a lot, recently.” Isaac says shrewdly. “Laughing at his phone but never saying why.”

Stiles shrugs.

“I have friends outside of you guys.”

“Liar.” Erica says carelessly. Danny examines Stiles with a small frown.

“You have a boyfriend, don’t you?” he asks, kinda smug like he’s a dimpled Sherlock Holmes or something. Stiles snorts.

“I wish.”

“You wish you had a boyfriend or you wish the person you’re texting _was_ your boyfriend?” Allison asks, cocking her head thoughtfully.

And Stiles honestly doesn’t know how to answer that. Thankfully Erica provides a distraction by dropping an entire bottle of red wine onto the white rug (which Stiles never really liked any way so it’s a win-win) before he can delve to deeply into that question because really, what would be his answer?

* * *

 

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: ME] knock knock

[FROM: DEREK] oh god. fine.

[FROM: DEREK] who’s there?

[FROM: ME] a guy who just won at a knock knock joke, that’s who

* * *

 

[FROM: ME] merry Christmas!!

[FROM: ME] you know, if you celebrate Christmas

[FROM: DEREK] I do & you too

[FROM: ME] so what you up to? Ive just finished the ritualistic process of cramming myself full of delicious food and now im trying to convince my dad to have a healthy veggie shake to counter balance the heart attack inducing feast hes just consumed

[FROM: DEREK] my mom and sisters are kind of drunk and they’re playing ornament buckaroo on my uncle

[FROM: ME] what’s that?

[FROM: DEREK] hes fallen asleep on the couch so they’re just hanging baubles off him

[FROM: ME] cute

[FROM: DEREK] I actually sent a present to the store but I dont know if it arrived in time

[FROM: ME] oh dude my roommate actually texted and told me something arrived for me. Sweet!!! thank u xxxxxxxx

[FROM: DEREK] its no problem. merry Christmas

[FROM: ME] merry Christmas

* * *

 

[FROM: ME] soooo I opened that present

[FROM: ME] and thank you for my snoopy dick mug.

[FROM: DEREK] autocorrect?

[FROM: ME]???

[FROM: DEREK] I guess you didn’t mean snoopy dick mug

[FROM: ME] I did. Its a  snoopy dick mug

[FROM: DEREK] snoopy dick mug?

[FROM: ME] snoopy dick mug

[FROM: DEREK] what?

[FROM: ME] dude u got me a snoopy dick mug I don’t know where the confusion is coming from

[FROM: DEREK] I got you a snoopy mug

[FROM: ME] yeah and when you put in hot water, snoopys dick appears

[FROM: ME] snoopy dick mug

[FROM: DEREK] oh god

[FROM: ME] yup

[FROM: DEREK] ill get you a new one

[FROM: ME] don’t!!!

[FROM: ME] i like it. it may defile a beloved childrens character and my roommate is really traumatised but damn, this coffee tastes good

* * *

 

[FROM: DEREK] I don’t like interviews

[FROM: DEREK] my sisters made a drinking game which they play every time one of my interviews airs

[FROM: DEREK] one sip for every ‘um’

[FROM: DEREK] two sips if I give a one word answer

[FROM: DEREK] down the entire drink if I roll my eyes

[FROM: DEREK] sometimes I don’t like my sisters either                            

* * *

 

[FROM: ME] sorry for not replying last night. I fell asleep and then my phone died a noble and valiant death and I was unable to resuscitate it.

[FROM: DEREK]?

[FROM: ME]I lost my phone charger.

[FROM: DEREK] its okay. sorry for texting so late

[FROM: ME] ehhh sleep is for the weak its fine. so what whacked out timezone are you in now?

[FROM: DEREK] I’m in Michigan actually.

[FROM: ME] really?

[FROM: DEREK] yeah

[FROM: DEREK] im princess jasmine

[FROM: ME] um

[FROM: ME] wow. Sure, whatever bro. live your dreams

[FROM: DEREK] it’s the name im registered with at the rosehip, idiot

[FROM: ME] oh

[FROM: DEREK] I got here yesterday

[FROM: ME] right

[FROM: ME] so you doing anything this evening?

[FROM: DEREK] not really

[FROM: ME] oh

[FROM: ME] so if youre not doing anything, you maybe wanna come over? my roommates not home

 [FROM: DEREK] right now?

[FROM: ME] right now.

 


End file.
